Prime cantante! Scherzo! Andante! Piano, pianissimo! Presto, prestissimo! Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine? And now a miraculous gurgling gushes Like nectar from Hebe’s Olympian bottle, The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle! Such melody must be a hermit-thrush’s! But that other caroler, nearer, Outrivalling rivalry with clearer Sweetness incredibly fine! Is it oriole, red-bird, or blue-bird, Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird? All one, sir, both this bird and that bird; The whole flight are all the same catbird! The whole visible and invisible choir you see On one lithe twig of yon green tree. Flitting, feathery Blondel! Listen to his rondel! To his lay romantical, To his sacred canticle. Hear him lilting! See him tilting His saucy head and tail, and fluttering While uttering All the difficult operas under the sun Just for fun; Or in tipsy revelry, Or at love devilry, Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, Like an inimitable poet Who captivates the world’s heart, And don’t know it. Hear him lilt! See him tilt! Then suddenly he stops, Peers about, flirts, hops, As if looking where he might gather up The wasted ecstasy just spilt From the quivering cup Of his bliss overrun. Then, as in mockery of all The tuneful spells that e’er did fall From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, He snarls, and mews, and flies.
My Catbird
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